


Moonlight in Vermont

by prettyoddmoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Billiard Table, Dom Tom Riddle, F/M, Female Reader, Frank Sinatra is playing, I wrote this ages ago, Modern Day Tom Riddle, New York City, Pool & Billiards, Pool Table Sex, Rough Sex, Top Tom Riddle, what is tom riddle doing in nyc? i don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:06:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26053921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyoddmoon/pseuds/prettyoddmoon
Summary: She whiles away her time at an underground bar somewhere in the depths of New York City, where she gets to play pool with an utterly mysterious and enigmatic gentleman – he goes by Tom Riddle, and he's really fucking good.
Relationships: Tom Riddle & Reader, Tom Riddle/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 97





	Moonlight in Vermont

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! i hope you enjoy!! uploading this was an impulsive d̶r̶u̶n̶k̶ decision, since this fic is several months old and i was just hesitating to upload it. well, too bad. now i'm doing it.

Her throat is coated with liquid fire as she downs her second old-fashioned, yet it's delicious. She tries to conceal the way-too-apparent burning sensation via closing her eyes and slightly tilting her head upwards, the sound waltzing all around her gradually drowning out.

The chatter. The 60's tunes silently playing in the background. The clanking of ice being poured in tumblers. Her own breathing.

She's sat on a tall stool at an underground bar somewhere in the depths of the heart of New York City. Her posture is perfectly upright, almost too elegant to handle, she is alone, and the soft satin fabric of her burgundy skin-tight gown hugs her shoulders and waist as perfectly as any dress ever could.

[Y/N] would be lying if she ever said her bar visits hadn't become frequent. Routine. A needily essential item on her weekly agenda.

Yet today, there is an actual excuse, to, once again, find herself at such an establishment on a chilly Friday night in the middle of October: a pool tournament.

Out of all imaginable things, the young woman knew her way around a cue stick exceptionally well; good enough to sign up for the competition. Good enough to make it all the way to the finale, with one more crucial game to play to decide who will be taking the grand prize – a whopping 1500 bucks – home.

Her fourth, freshly mixed old-fashioned clutched in her left hand, cue stick in the right, she approaches the pool table with utmost grace. Hunched over it, assembling the balls in their starting position, stands, as she can only guess, her opponent. She hadn't had the pleasure to look the stranger in the face _just_ yet, but the way his pale hands operate with such skill leaves [Y/N] even more than auspiciously curious.

She's not quite tipsy yet, although slowly approaching that state; floating somewhere in between and wondering where this night might take her.

Once he glances up at her, the girl is greeted with a mysterious half-smile. The young man makes the effort to walk around the billiard table, and once he is stood right in front of her, significantly taller and teeming with mystery, he offers her his hand.

[Y/N] locks eyes with the gentleman as she sets her old-fashioned down; his onyx button-up is slightly undone, revealing a spot of pale flesh underneath it. He faintly smells of cologne and bourbon, his black, thick curls emphasized by the dim orangy-yellow light.

“Tom,” he says simply. British accent, then. Enigmatic. His voice is low with a hint of rasp. The lady doesn't dare break eye contact, searching for nothing in particular in his whiskey-colored eyes.

“[Y/N],” she replies not any less simply and accepts his hand, giving it a faint shake. In return, her opponent-to-be gifts it a firm squeeze, the smile on his face broadening as a groovy song plays in the background. _Sinatra_. Fitting.

Their short encounter is interrupted as a voice yells from the back of the bar, “Final game, Riddle? Kick ass!”

Tom's head doesn't move an inch, yet his eyes flicker to his right for a split-second. He lets go of [Y/N]'s hand as gently as one could do so and mutters, “To a good game.” Although a toast, he doesn't raise his glass to the statement.

The lady presents him with an approving nod and simultaneously reaches for a chalk cube, only to rub the tip of her cue stick.

Meanwhile, her opponent takes a firm grip of his own cue, and, gently toying with it in his hands, states, “I shall let the lady break.”

[Y/N] licks her crimson lips – she doesn't realize _just_ how seductive the move might come across – and walks over to her preferred breaking spot, stooping tardily. Being closely followed by Tom's eyes, she positions the cue stick in between her fingers, and, gaze focused on the cue ball and the cue ball only, kicks off the game.

The hungry eyes, lustful glance exchanges, uneven breaths and gentle yet deliberate movements throughout the game make it utterly difficult to concentrate on anything other than lunging at each other and using the billiard table for a whole different purpose; yet both of them know how to contain themselves, as hard as it might seem. Self-control is nothing new for Tom. Neither is it unknown to [Y/N].

It's a tight game; there's barely room left to breathe, and, as Tom finishes yet another sazerac, [Y/N] successfully sinks her last solid; an orange five. And, as though wished for, the 8-ball is in an all-too-favorable position.

Her body is slightly bent and before she fully leans in, she looks at her opponent through her mascara-coated lashes. His arms are loosely crossed in front of his body, and, as she notices, he is already looking at her, and had been all along. His glare is hot and cold at the same time, and it's almost impossible to tear your eyes away from him.

A triumphant smirk spreads across his face and she can't help but mirror it; it's too irresistible not to. Why is he smiling? She is winning...

Having taken a deep breath that comes out surprisingly sharp, the young woman leans in, concentrating on her victory. _You can do it._ She takes a second to adjust the cue stick in between her fingers and pulls her operating arm back just a bit, getting ready for the initial hit. All the while, she is surveilled by Tom, who nurses his tumbler with the remains of what used to be his spicy-bitter drink in anticipation of her next move.

She shoots. She pockets the 8-ball.

The girl is almost ready to leap into the air with a wide grin as she watches the cue ball follow suit and precisely land in the very same pocket in the top right corner; her expression changes, and she internally blames herself for putting a little too much force into her hit. Scratch.

She unbends with sheepish reluctance, meeting her opponent's eyes in search for sanctuary, or any kind of comfort. He gives her a look of utter smugness, as though he could foresee his victory. _As though he fucking saw it coming._

“Bummer,” he gives out, spinning the empty tumbler in his hand in circles. Creating apparent ice-against-glass noises to break the tension, he adds, “Very delightful game, indeed, though, thank you very much.”

Striding to the adjacent edge of the table, she grabs her untouched old-fashioned and quaffs it down to quench something that goes beyond thirst or any other natural urge; disappointment. It's bitter and it burns, and she's not entirely sure whether it's the alcohol or the sting of defeat.

Surely, she doesn't want to come across as impolite. “Likewise, _Tom,_ ” his own name rolling off her tongue oh-so-swiftly with an almost natural touch to it causes the man to feel a delicious unease stir within him, and he is almost sure of his own intentions.

“Congratulations,” she continues, raising her empty tumbler at him with a nod. She realizes how it might come across – selfish pettiness. It's not like she cares; she wants him to drink in her confidence. Yes, she lost. No, she's unmoved. Having turned around, she makes her way to the cue holders on the wall to her right. Placing the stick in its place, a warm hand is gently placed on the small of her back, a hand big enough to curl its gentle grasp around her hip. She knows who it belongs to and as a cue stick is put in place right beside hers, her assumption is confirmed.

“I happen to have a pool table at my place, in case you're interested in a rematch,” a dark voice speaks in her ear, and even though [Y/N] has only known this voice for an hour, she can pinpoint it with utmost precision; no room for doubt and mistakes.

She bites her lip. Turns around. Looks up in his eyes; they teem with secrets but glisten with passion and desire. “Tempting,” she chokes out, putty in his hands. There is a charm about him that snakes around her and pulls her in, a charm that would make her do anything for him, only if he asked.

A faint smile that prompts _Damn, right_ spreads across his face. “You didn't strike me as a quitter.”

She closes her eyes and by the time she opens them again, they're already seated in the cab; his hand is resting on her thigh, setting off and circulating buzzing electricity within her body. The driver is playing indie, which is not making the situation any better: the atmosphere is set, and the only thing left hoping for is his lips on hers. And, at that point, it wouldn’t matter which ones.

They're feeling loose; _he's_ feeling loose, and his hand on her thigh is far not enough. He wants to slip it under her dress and she secretly desires the same, not quite needy enough to ask for it but too salacious for it not to be the only thought circling her mind.

Tom begins to stroke the girl through the satin fabric of her gown and the material bunches up underneath his fingers; it's unintentional, but he welcomes it.

The car ride seems like torture; an unpleasant mix of anticipation and impatience fueled by rowdiness, yet once they arrive and stumble into his dark, only illuminated by the lights of the skyscrapers beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows apartment, it's go time.

He turns on the lights and points to a room in the far back as they take off their outerwear and shoes; “Drink?” he asks, short, but understandable, and she complies. How can she not?

The gentleman disappears into the what she can only assume kitchen area, and she, quickly throwing a couple of curious looks around his living space, stumbles into the room he had pointed towards; after all, she's drunk and heated-up. No time for inquisitiveness, there is only time for adventure.

She finds a lavish pool table standing in the middle of the room, along with some music equipment and a selection of objects that exude a certain note of puzzling darkness. She rummages in the wide variety of records with curiosity until one catches her eye in particular; Sinatra. Again. She notices how Ol' Blue Eyes keeps following her with every step she takes, the damned genius, yet she doesn't mind. She could never mind. Pulling the record out of its holder, she puts it on and turns the volume up, just in time for Tom to come walking through the door with two glasses of whiskey on the rocks. Points for taste.

He looks at the record player and smiles, approaching his guest. He hands her the tumbler, they clink glasses in delight, each takes a sip, and as the alcohol sets their insides ablaze, Tom walks towards the table to set the game up.

It doesn't take him long – he's skilled, and she wonders if that's the only thing he's so perfectly excellent at – and once they're stood across from each other with cue sticks clutched in hand, he demands, “After you.” A gentleman, he radiates a sense of dominance that fogs up the young woman's mind.

[Y/N] gives him a luscious look and leans over the table, not forgetting to emphasize her ass by sticking it out and giving it a slight wiggle in the most promiscuous of manners. Tom bites his lip at the sight of that and watches her break the rack.

She scratches on intention, leaving him the freedom to choose a color. He smirks at the control he is granted; it's his favorite thing in the world. The girl steps away from the table, cue stick pressed to her chest and bottom lip captured in between her teeth. Gaze glued to her opponent, she watches him take a greedy sip, and he doesn't dare break the eye contact, still marveling at [Y/N] through his lashes. His glare is captivating – or is it his eyes? – and once he is done, he forces out a satisfied exhalation, which vaguely sounds like a groan, but still manages to make the young woman feel weightless. He strolls towards the cue ball, taking his sweet time. On his way there, he passes the young lady, not without attaching his hand to her waist and caressing it as a result. His fingertips are gentle, yet set every cell they're touching on fire. [Y/N] swallows hard. He's gone in a blink of an eye.

He shoots. He sinks. He shoots. He sinks again. He shoots. He scratches. On purpose.

He shrugs, steps away, smug smirk playing on his face, and closely watches his opponent bend her body forward. He doesn't waste a second of the time provided to him; instead, he approaches her from the back and leans down, his chest resting on her back, and aligns the position of her arms with his. He's as close to her as one can be; he can smell her skin, her hair; he can feel the very same satin fabric of her gown he did back then seated in the cab, and his head is somehow spinning – probably because all the blood he has left in his brain is, sure enough, coming rushing down his crotch. _Don't lose control._

Sinatra is still playing, deep voice flowing like silk; he's definitely contributing to the lustful atmosphere, how can he not? [Y/N] can feel Tom hardening against her and it's wicked; deliciously wicked, and as the two of them take a swing, they score, and pocket another ball. “You're a brilliant player,” he whispers, words swirling their way into her ear as though a subtle gust of wind, and it's fervent – the girl is forced to bite her lip.

Tom straightens himself, allowing [Y/N] to do the same and turn around. She rests the cue stick against the table to her right and in no time, the side of her face is grabbed with a sudden zing of dominance; he cannot resist and presses his lips against hers, she answers, parting hers for him. She deepens the kiss and with the ardent pressure he is applying to it, she is forced to lean backwards, her left elbow landing on the rough felt of the billiard table.

His lips fall into place against hers just like a constellation in the night sky – his tongue is ardent, his mouth is ardent, he tastes like finest bourbon and lemons and bittersweet chocolate. She doesn't know if she can handle the kiss, she might as well melt straight into it.

Impatiently tugging by her waist, Tom pulls the lady back up and breaks the kiss. He presses his palms on the backs of [Y/N]'s thighs, pulling and bunching up the fabric of her dress; once all the material is pooled around her waist, he lifts her up and sits her on the edge of the table. Her arms are crossed behind his neck and she is breathing hastily; yet she smiles and asks, deciding to tease him, “What about the game?”

“ _Fuck it,_ ” her opponent spits, exhaling with a hint of sharpness to his unsteady breath. The girl lets out a silent laugh and lands her fingers on his belt. Before she can start to undo it, her chin is guided upwards and she is once again embraced in a kiss. She can't tell if it's better than the previous one, but it's certainly more hungry. Once the belt and the zipper are dealt with, Tom drops his black trousers to the floor and they land around his ankles. [Y/N] pulls away from his lips and switches to undo the buttons on his button-up, and he, in the meantime, playfully tugs at her lacy underwear which is oh-so-conveniently exposed to him, and soon sneaks his right hand into her panties. His digits feel the situation out, toying with the young lady's folds.

“Mmh,” he gives out, pleased at her arousal, and while she still messes with the buttons on his shirt – it has become significantly harder now that his skilled hand is down her underwear – Tom gives her clit a couple rubs, which draw the first moans of the night out of her mouth. Victory.

Once the girl's task is finished, she slides Tom's shirt off his shoulders and he is forced to detach his fingers from her core in order to take it off completely. His body is true perfection: the curves and crevices embellishing his torso, the shoulder blades, the collarbones, the porcelain-esque glimmer to his skin. He can't be real, or at least not ordinary. Every damned thing about him screams _mystery_.

He returns to [Y/N], tangling his fingers in her underwear and tearing it off with one swift pull. The panties tear – what a bummer – and land on the floor. Tom doesn't put much mind to it and grabs the girl's thighs, spreading them apart to slip in between them, allowing her to wrap her legs around his body soon after. The skin-against-skin contact is paralyzing, numbing, buzzing, dizzying. All of the above, mixed together into a sensation of bliss laced with the tiniest bit of pain.

With her lips glued to his neck, she slides her fingers into his briefs and gently grips his hardened cock, which results in the man letting out a short groan. [Y/N] smiles against his ardent skin and frees him from the restraint of his underwear, pulling him closer.

Both his hands rest on her waist, and he drags her back just a tad. This results in her lips getting detached from his skin, and he once more guides her to look up at him with his digits underneath her chin tilting her head upwards. In no time, his index and middle fingers are in her mouth, and as she sucks on them viciously she's trying to coat them with as much saliva as she's capable of producing, all the while looking him deep in the eyes through her lashes. Tom's face is frozen in an expression that reflects lust, power, and control, and he's eager to show her what's next, _eager to fuck her_.

He gently pulls his fingers out of her mouth and breaks the string of saliva between them with his own, sliding his coated hand between them and inserting both his fingers into the girl at once, causing her to wince with a loud whimper and a lip bite as a side effect.

Gaze fixated on [Y/N], he pumps in and out of her, scissoring and stretching, preparing, watching closely as her head shoots back in satisfaction. She looks divine, and that sight, oh, that sight, was what he wanted to have ever since the moment he first laid eyes on her: so confident, so elegant, in her little skin-tight burgundy gown, so good at what she does and so aware about it, too. She couldn't know how much he'd actually desired her and for how long; yet she could expect.

Her spine bent at an almost unbearably impossible angle, she keeps the moans coming, but she can't help but crave more: _him_. His cock. Inside of her. As soon as fucking possible.

“ _Tom_ ,” she exhales quite loudly, desperation tangible in every word, movement and sound she indulges in. “ _Please, just please,_ ” she pleads, a whine escaping her luscious lips immediately after her impossibly needy statement. Tom smiles to himself; he didn't even have to ask her to, and there she is, already begging for him.

He smirks in a mischievous way, and, thinking that she's had enough of his teasing – after all, she's done her begging – pulls his fingers out; not without licking them clean, of course. He wants her to watch, and since her head is slightly tilted backwards, he closes his free palm around her throat, thus forcing her to look at him as he sucks on the digits that have ten seconds prior been inside her. Her taste dances on his tongue; it's dizzying, it's making his head spin, it's something entirely new. He's not quite sure he's ever tasted anything more delicious than that in his life. Nothing can compare.

He's as hard as one can possibly get and mere moments later he's lined up at her entrance. She's desperate; she moans and she pleads and she cries out for him – her neediness is doing him all the favors, that's exactly what he desires to hear. Tom can't wait any longer as he gently slides inside [Y/N], first warming her up with a couple of mellow thrusts, then gradually picking up his pace.

With the young lady's head shooting back in bliss, Tom issues a handful of hearty groans, and [Y/N] can swear they're the most seductive sound she's ever heard in her life. Their lustful bodies collide with every thrust that he makes, and she finds it difficult to keep her legs wrapped around his body – her muscles are losing their strength, softening, as is her brain and the rest of her senses. The only thing that exists for her right now is Tom, Tom and only Tom – sliding in and out of her at an otherwordly pace. He's only a couple of strokes in, but he already feels like he's going to release at any given moment. _Not yet. She's too good not to come right here, right now. But not yet._

He presses the girl down on the pool table with his weight, continuing to thrust as hard as is humanly possible. Or not too humanly – his movements almost feel like they're construed of magic, witchcraft, the occult. [Y/N] can't help but moan beneath him crudely; her whimpers echo across the room and mix with the man's groans, bleeding into an obscene, vulgar melody of pleasure. It's lewd, completely immodest, but she just can't bring herself to care enough. It's the damned way Tom is making her feel; his thick cock stretching her tight, fervent walls, an all-too-perfect fit. It's his reactions, too; his low, dark growls and grunts, which almost sound animalistic. She can only dream of what she is making him feel, and before she starts, she is nudged closer and closer to her discharge. No one and nothing could ever prepare [Y/N] for the way Tom could fuck, truly.

He issues one uneven breath after another, throwing occasional growls into the mix, his pace steady, sliding in and out of the girl right there, captured underneath him. _His. Entirely his. If only for the night._ Tom doesn't think he'll handle much longer, but he's making himself last as long as he can. “Too fucking good, [Y/N], too tight,” he groans, and his eyelids feel heavy, thus he's forced to shut them. The girl whimpers, clinging onto the gentleman for dear life – it feels as though she'll fade away if she ever lets go. It's unbearable but at the same time unbearably delicious as he fucks her into the green felt of the pool table – she knows she'll have burns, scratches and marks decorating her spine in the morning, but she couldn't give less fucks.

It's too soon to let go, yet too good not to do so.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, voice raspy, almost sending his counterpart over the edge with his eager words. She knows he's close and she knows he's stalling as much as he's capable of, and it pleases her. It's flattering to know he wants to stretch the moment out for as long as he can – the realization that Tom is trying his best not to come to be able to spend as much more time as he can inside of her is making her insides curl and knot, even more than they did before, and the stirring within the pit of her stomach is slowly but surely coming to its peak.

_It's time. It's finally time to let go._

[Y/N] throws her head back against the table with a sonorous moan, signaling Tom that she is just that dangerously close. He gets the hint, _of course he does,_ and having slid his hand in between them, he starts rubbing the girl's clit in harsh, yet gentle circles; he wants to get her off, but he doesn't want to overstimulate her, _just_ the fitting care a true gentleman would provide. She's been so good for him, he can't help but show his gallant side; a few times too many.

The girl's moans get overwhelming and her walls deliciously clench around Tom; it goes without saying that it does him a ton of favors, and he, speeding up, thrusts sloppier than expected, manages to send [Y/N] over the edge. She comes, voicing her utter passion, with all sorts of profanities and obscene moans coming tumbling down her lips. Tom is just way too good at sex not to make him aware of the fact.

Keeping up his courtly fashion, Tom leads her through it, all the while trying to pull himself together not to come right then and there as well. It's difficult, – it's been all along – but he manages, his self-control excellent as ever. [Y/N] is _just_ coming down her highs, some of her – as he had come to realize – delicious juices already dripping down, staining both the billiard table and the floor, but Tom can't bring himself to care enough; he's thrusting as hard as he can, his hair is sticking to his forehead and his breath is hitching in his throat, beyond tipsy and inches away from overstimulation.

Nevertheless, his orgasm is not to be hidden from, and soon, it sets in. Tom is harshly yanked into the abyss, a feeling of absolute, pure bliss overwhelming his body, causing every single muscle in his body to tense up as his senses peak and his eyes roll into the back of his head. This is surely the hardest he's come in a _long_ time and he's trying to stretch out this sacred moment of paradise for as long as he can; he thrusts and thrusts, colliding with [Y/N]'s sweet spot on his way there, and mere seconds after his own orgasm begins, [Y/N]'s second blossoms.

As Tom growls, the young lady moans even louder, her own hand slipping in between the two of them to help her through it. He notices. Not fully down his highs _just_ yet, he replaces her soft, gentle hand with his, putting more force into the rubs he's gifting her clit and thus sweetens the sensation for the girl. She's overwhelmed, and as he rides himself out, their orgasms intertwining, she falls into a pit of overstimulation – but the pain is worth it, worth every single fervent touch he lands upon her and worth every breathy groan issued by him.

Once their orgasms wear off and fade, Tom pulls his limp cock out of her, some of the turbid white mixture that is his cum and her discharge oozing out of her delectable, well-stretched hole. He grins. _Smug fuck,_ [Y/N] notes to herself.

Breaths loud and uneven, Tom harkens. _Fuckin' Sinatra._ [Y/N] brushes some of the raven hair out of his face – his features are obscure, somehow more devilish than before, but she can't fathom it. Maybe she's too drunk, or maybe he is, or maybe it's just the weariness of the after-sex-euphoria.

Soon enough, he rises back into the air, straightening his posture – [Y/N] can't help but sneak a peek at his perfect muscles – and exhales. “Will you stay the night?” he questions. He sounds worn-out, she notices. Her body is vibrating with the aftermath of what they had just indulged into, and she follows suit, wearily propping herself up on the billiard table. Her hair is bedlam and her make-up is basically ruined, but the crimson lipstick is, still, mostly there. Tom allows himself a sneer at the fact.

“If that means round two and three, then, most definitely,” the corner of her mouth merely lifts.

He ends up grabbing her by the chin, brushing his finger against her peachy skin. “You can bet your life on it,” he rasps with an undertone of gloom to his voice, leaning in to kiss her once more. The young lady greets him with a subtle bite to his bottom lip, and Tom is forced to groan against her mouth. He's already thrilled with whatever this night has in store for him – it feels as though he's been set down in heaven, although heaven with a sharp aftertaste of hell (and bourbon).

 _This_ , exactly _this_ , _this_ is the hidden message behind the idea of what they talk about in fairytales. Not love, not that bubbly, warm feeling simmering deep within your chest and stomach. It's the passion, it's the sex, it's the climax, it's the orgasm wearing off, it's the ringing in your ears from all the moaning, panting, and breathing, and it's _most certainly_ the Frank Sinatra record playing about in the background as you're fucking someone you've met at the bar just hours prior. _That was it._

Tom is kicked out of his lustful daydream as [Y/N] breaks their kiss; she draws breath, and, for a moment, he cannot help but glance her directly in the eyes. If he was ever curious for a definition of _magic_ , this girl would be it.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! once again, if you're feeling generous, consider following me on twitter – @/nobleregulus. toodles!


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